Tuesday 28th October 2003 - 7:20pm

For the moment, I’m loving Miss Sixty television adverts: the blankness of the animation, figures collapsing across the screen forlornly and three years too late, as though somebody had crumpled up a page from The Face and posted it to the wrong address in Milan. The by-line reads “FASHION STRIKES BACK”, but you know it never means any harm.

And this, the song of a group of Bucharest street children: “We are the glue-sniffers of University Square/ We are so hungry we could die/ This is our gang!” An affirmation and a denial, so tightly bound together that the one becomes the other, transforming poverty into a badge of solidarity. What else can you possibly do with it?

And the Azure Ray album, all dreams of flight and empty freeways and the quiet dignity of the backing vocals, half in love with heartache. If I were to follow my instincts, I should copy it onto tape and post it to a friend, the only pointer to the contents being the words ‘Delta Goodrem - Demos 2002-3’ on the cassette sleeve. The appreciation, I tend to think, would be boundless.

There are those of us fascinated by love songs for the same reason that we’re fascinated by French films: it seems somehow so exotic, so foreign..

Spurred on by the existence of a webring named “I Can Spell” - by the awful smuggery it presumes; by the irritable misanthropy, the unyielding boredom, the baseless self-satisfaction it would take to join (yes, I considered it) - I’m musing on the fact that both the Nation of Islam and Colin Wilson point to the existence of an elite 5%, on whom alone wisdom is bestowed, and to whom is given the task of wielding it on behalf of the foolish and corrupt, the remaining 95%. Naturally, the creators of these systems grant themselves honorary membership of the Elect, as one would expect in view of their labours (why go to the effort of creating a system unless you can slip in a shrine to yourself at the heart of it?).

But I’m wondering how many people subscribe to this view, how many consider themselves representatives of a pariah intelligentsia-in-hiding, how many see themselves as Chosen or Cursed (wisdom’s a terrible drag without salvation to accessorise it) according to the statistic. And why the 5% should appear as a constant.

I suspect that either religion or numerology, or an unholy alliance of the two, might yield more examples, principally from among the millennial cults (perhaps you could email me if they spring to mind), but, as I haven’t the patience to wade through too many apocalyptic books today, my knowledge ends here.

What I do know is that the spiritual leader Conselheiro, who founded an ascetic community in the backlands of Brazil at the turn of the century, prophesised great tribulations ahead. In 1897, the desert would sprout grass. In 1899, rivers would turn red and a new planet would appear. Finally, in 1900, the sun would disappear and the stars would rain down.

But what of 1898?

“In 1898, hats would increase in size and heads grow smaller.”

Panic ensued.

If we’re to believe that my year on the run will eventually draw to a close, then perhaps this is the place to include a list of those records that have thus far saved me, in their own ways.

Yes, it’s a strange collection, but I’m little inclined to argue my case, preferring instead to offer it up as a useful illustration of how subdued life becomes beyond the reach of fresh cultural currents. Meanwhile, the purists will wave their spindly arms and gnash their teeth. Let them have their fun.

Momentarily, I’m concluding a scattershot diary entry, falling back upon the usual nihilist scavenging, overlooking the usual drowsy troubles, keeping as my guide those lines from Flaubert’s L’Histoire Fraudera Nous: “It is our job to find the untranslatable. And then, my friend, will the fun commence: we must translate it.”

The weeks glide past, unburdened by divisions and irritations, innocent of employment and obligation. Long may they pass as such. Some will scornfully say that I expect the world to provide for me. What nonsense. I politely request it.

Here, in the eternal Sunday afternoon of the soul, life comes easily for whole days at a time.